Traditions
by paganpunk2
Summary: 24 December, Wayne Manor. Alfred is abroad, leaving Bruce and Dick to fend for themselves against the loneliness and pain of the season. Written in response to a contest in the forum 'In the Silence of the Night.'


**Author's Note: This story was written in response to a contest in the forum 'In the Silence of the Night.' The contest theme was as follows:**

**It's the Christmas season and everyone is happy and with their families except for Batman and Robin. They find they have no families but each other, and Alfred of course. But it seems that Alfred has taken a trip out of the country to visit his family. So Dick and Bruce are alone in this season of family and giving. Let's take a peek into their heads and see what this type of season brings in the mindset of the Dark Crusader and his Feathered Friend.**

**Happy reading, and happy holidays.**

Bruce haunted the halls of Wayne Manor, searching, his shadow stretching up the walls as his feet landed soundlessly on the hardwood. _Christmas Eve,_ he mused. _It's always like this, always the same. There's always that same sense of loss, of nothing being worth celebrating, but this year…it's worse this year._

He couldn't explain why the emptiness in his stomach was more poignant than he remembered it being since the first 24th of December after their deaths. _Maybe because this is the twentieth one they've missed,_ he mused. _A milestone. A fifth of a century. Nearly four-fifths of my lifetime._ That resonated, to be sure, but it didn't feel like the whole reason.

Alfred being gone certainly wasn't helping, he knew. Bruce had found him at the small table in the kitchen two weeks earlier, a cup of tea in his hand as he stared pensively at a letter. Glancing at the envelope it had arrived in, he'd been able to surmise that it had come from his family in England, most likely his mother, with whom he had kept up a lively correspondence for as long as the billionaire could remember. "Everything okay, Alfred?" he'd asked.

"Oh, of course, sir," the butler had replied, folding the letter away and standing. "Can I get you something?"

"The truth would be nice," he'd rebutted bluntly. The Englishman usually had a world-class poker face, but Bruce had caught him unaware and knew something was bothering him.

Alfred knew better than to try and argue. "My mother's birthday is Christmas Eve, sir. She'll be seventy five this year."

"That's impressive. Good for her."

"Yes. Well, she's not one to abide bad habits," he almost smiled, momentarily nostalgic. "In any case, the letter is from my sister. She has managed to convince – coerce is more likely, to be honest – all but one of us to make the journey home for mother's birthday. It's going to be a surprise, naturally, and Rebecca's very excited to see her reaction. I personally think the poor woman will have a heart attack, but…"

"…All but one, huh?" Bruce arched an eyebrow knowingly. Alfred glanced at him, then moved past and began to wipe down the counters, keeping his eyes on his work. "Why didn't you say anything sooner? You should go. There's still time."

"I can hardly be absent over Christmas, Master Wayne. Especially this year," he added pointedly. "It's the boy's first holidays here, I couldn't bear it if…well, sir, if his first Christmas without his parents is anything like yours was, you'll be glad I stayed."

"Dick's not me," he argued gently. "I'm not saying it won't be hard, but he's…he's so much more resilient than I was when it happened, Alfred. He laughs, he smiles, he plays. I don't think I _ever_ played after that night."

"…No, sir, you did not," Alfred grimaced, remembering. "Not until a few days after Master Dick's arrival in this house did I see you truly play again."

"That's my point. It's not the same with him. I can handle whatever comes up." He paused. "You've missed too many Christmases with them. With her, especially. You need to go. We'll be fine."

The butler was silent for a long time, feeling the beginnings of a glare on the back of his neck as he hesitated. Just as he was about to announce that he wouldn't make a decision without discussing things with his younger charge, the nine year old skipped into the room. "Hi Alfred!" he called automatically as he entered. "…Bruce!" he exclaimed a moment later. "You're home early today!"

"It's Friday, chum," the billionaire reminded him, accepting his usual 'welcome home' hug by wrapping one arm around the child's shoulders and squeezing back.

"Oh, yeah. Early out day," he grinned. "Wish they'd let us out of _school_ early on Fridays."

"Yeah, I'll bet you do," Bruce laughed, reaching up and pulling down the cookie jar before Dick climbed the counter after it. "I assume this is what you're here for?" he asked, handing it over.

"Yup. Thanks." He paused. "Alfred, how many can I have?"

"May, Master Dick," the Englishman corrected, now scrubbing the kettle.

"Sorry. How many _may_ I have?"

"You may have three, given the day of the week."

"Friday's triple cookie day," Dick informed Bruce gravely. "But I still always check." Placing his treat on a plate and handing the cookie jar back to his guardian, the boy leaned against the counter. "So why are we all standing in the kitchen, anyway?"

"Alfred and I were discussing his trip," the billionaire answered quickly, hoping to win him over to his side.

"You're going on a trip, Alfred?" Dick asked, his voice a mixture of sadness and excitement. "Are you finally going to go see your mom? You know she misses you, she writes you _all the time_." Bruce shot him a glance of surprised approval, and earned a secretive grin. _He totally needs to go see her,_ his gaze relayed upwards silently.

_You're telling me,_ the man rolled his eyes back.

"…I am considering taking a brief vacation to see my mother, yes," the butler admitted. "I am not pleased with the timing, however. I would prefer not to be absent from the manor over the holidays."

"But you're _supposed_ to be with your family at Christmas," Dick frowned.

Alfred started slightly. "…Which is exactly why I am so hesitant to go, young sir," he said softly.

"…Oh. Well…" he shifted uncomfortably. "It's been a long time, though. At least that's what you said once. And isn't she getting…you know…kinda old?" His words were spoken in a tone of open, child-like honesty tinged with an obvious concern that they were not appropriate. It was enough to make the Englishman feel a little better about the entire situation.

"She will be seventy five this Christmas Eve, Master Dick. I believe that qualifies her as 'kind of old,' as you phrased it."

"So…maybe you should definitely go, then? I mean…" _She's not going to be around forever,_ he couldn't manage to say.

Finally, Alfred put down the sponge and turned to face his charges. "Am I to take it, sirs, that you are both pressuring me to attend the fete my sister is putting on this 24th?"

"Yes," they answered at the same time.

"…You are _absolutely_ certain?" _I would very much like to see her, and especially for such an event, but to be absent from this house over Christmas, and __this__ Christmas, especially…a milestone year for you both…_

"_Yes,_ Alfred," Bruce said firmly. "We're certain." _You need this. You've __earned__ this, and a lot more. At least this way __one__ of us can be with our mothers on Christmas. _Unconsciously, his hand fell to Dick's shoulder.

The older man looked away from him and focused on his younger charge. "Master Dick?" he said quietly. "Are _you_ certain?"

The boy swallowed hard. _I want you here,_ he thought in a small voice. _It would be nice to have all three of us here. But it's not fair to you, and it's not fair to your mother. _"You should go, Alfred," he nodded with far greater confidence than he felt. He held the butler's stare, feeling him measure just how much he meant that statement. Eventually the look broke, and he felt Bruce's fingers twitch against the side of his neck. _Good job._

"…Then I will make the necessary arrangements," he agreed.

Two weeks later, they'd said goodbye outside of security at Gotham International. Alfred was, of course, pleased with the anticipation of seeing his siblings and mother, but he couldn't quite manage to keep his mouth from quivering when Dick tugged him down into a tight embrace. "Have the best vacation ever, Alfred," the boy whispered. "We'll be okay." Then he stepped back, gave him the brightest smile he had that didn't belong exclusively to Bruce, and took the billionaire's gloved hand.

"I'll call when I land, then," he said a little shakily.

"You'd better," the man he'd raised joked. It was always Alfred telling _him_ to call when he got off the plane, not the other way around.

"I shall be more diligent about the chore than you usually are, sir," he returned with a tiny upward tilt of his lips. "Master Wayne. Master Dick," he inclined his head to each of them in turn. "Merry Christmas." With that he turned away and joined the line, not looking back until he was on the other side. Then, unable to stand not knowing if they'd waited, he glanced through the glass and found the boy waving energetically, the more stoic figure beside him also raising a hand. It was too much; as soon as he was past the point where they could see, he had to pull out his handkerchief. _Oh, my,_ he sighed as he approached his gate and read _London_ on the board. _This is going to be very difficult._ _Thank heavens I'm going to be with mother, she can at least commiserate on how it feels to be away from one's children at this time of the year. I imagine she's developed a coping method or two…perhaps I can convince her to share…_

That had been the 22nd. When Alfred had called the next morning to let them know that he'd landed safely, Bruce had still been confident in his ability to handle anything that came up regarding himself or Dick and the season. His good feelings about it had lasted all day as they distracted themselves with sledding, snowball fights, and a Christmas movie marathon after dinner that had ended in both of them falling asleep on the den couch. And then, there had been this morning.

He'd known immediately that something was up. Dick hadn't had any nightmares, he knew; the boy had slept curled up next to him, and had barely moved for nine hours. He awoke, however, looking as if he hadn't had any rest in three days. Bruce tried getting him to talk, but the answers he'd gotten had been vague at best and non-existent at worst. All of his suggestions of things to do were met with tired smiles that told him his son really wasn't interested but would go along to make him happy. It was _not_ the way he'd envisioned their first Christmas Eve together going, although when he stopped and thought about it he realized he shouldn't have been surprised. After all, Dick was acting exactly the way he himself wanted to; he was only managing to hold it back in an attempt to make the child's first Christmas without his parents less miserable.

Those unsuccessful tries were exhausting, and the billionaire fell into a nap after their lunch. When he awoke, Dick was nowhere to be found. He knew, somehow, that he hadn't left the house, but he didn't come out when his name was called. _He's getting too good at hiding,_ Bruce opined as he searched one of the back halls of the sprawling mansion. _I'm glad, it will serve him well, but I wish he wouldn't deploy it against me. I wish he'd just talk to me about it. I know how miserable it is. I remember the first Christmas without them._ _I was damn lucky to have Alfred to distract me. How can I offer him the same thing if he won't come out of wherever he's holed up?_

That's what it was, really; the twenty Christmases he'd gone without his parents and the absence of the man who had done his best to stand in for them ever since were certainly contributing to his unhappiness, but it was knowing what Dick was going through, _alone_, that hurt the most. "C'mon, chum," he whispered, turning around at another blank wall. "Let me help. Please."

At a loss, he headed for the kitchen. Just as he was passing the dining room he heard a tiny _clink_, and paused. Peeking his head around the corner, he found his quarry carefully laying out four place settings. Two of them, he noted, consisted of the finest dishes in the house; the fragile antique china plates used only for special occasions, the hand-embroidered silk napkins his mother had inherited from her grandmother folded perfectly alongside, the silver flatware that had been Wayne property for as long as anyone could remember arrayed sparklingly on top. The other places were set much more simply, featuring items that were recognizable as their everyday dinnerware; still very expensive, but far plainer than the elaborate display across the table. Finishing his task, the boy stepped back from the table and crossed his arms, holding himself as if he had a stomachache and staring at what he'd done.

"…Dick?" Bruce ventured, finally stepping into the room. He stopped a few feet away, not wanting to touch him if it wasn't what he needed at the moment. "What's up, kiddo?"

"I know I'm not supposed to touch the good stuff," he murmured, his eyes never leaving the two chairs set in front of the casual dishes. "I was really careful, I promise. I didn't bang it or anything."

"It's okay," he soothed. "Do you mind telling me what you're doing, though?"

"…There's this old tradition," he whispered. "On Christmas Eve, you set out empty places for the dead. We only ever had room for one at our table, even though we really should have had way more, mom always said. I guess there were a lot of people she wanted to remember. But she told me about when she was little, with the caravan…before she met dad and joined the circus. They would build a long table, and everyone who had passed and was missed would have their own place. She said it was beautiful." He gulped. "Sometimes the souls of the dead come out on Christmas Eve to share in the food and the festivities of the living. That's the legend. That's…that's why you set the plates. So they feel welcome, and so they know…they know that the living wish that they were really here tonight…"

Huge, glistening tears coursed down his cheeks, and Bruce just couldn't take it anymore. He'd managed to stay back all through the boy's explanation, but the sight of him trying so stolidly to hold back his tears as he kept his eyes riveted to the invitation he'd issued was too much. "Oh, Dicky," he crooned, dropping to his knees and pulling him close. He cradled the back of his head, feeling harsh sobs shake the thin little frame. "I know, kiddo. I know." _God, what a tradition for him to have remembered. No wonder I couldn't find him, I would never have looked for him in the pantry…He must have climbed almost to the ceiling to get at those plates. _

"I just thought…maybe if I set them places…" he sniffled. "Mom said her uncle once saw her dead aunt. Just for a second, he said, it was just a flash, but…he said she looked happy. And I just wanted…I just thought _maybe_…"

"Hush," Bruce almost moaned, his own cheeks now wet too. "It's okay."

"It _isn't_."

"No," he amended. "It isn't. You're right."

"I just wanted one second. Just…just one last smile. To know they're happy."

"They are, baby. If they can see you, then they are."

Slowly, Dick pulled back just enough to look at his guardian. "I'm glad I'm here, Bruce," he said solemnly. "But I still wish they hadn't-"

"I know. I know." He frowned deeply as a thin line of crimson traced down towards the child's lip. _Oh, Dicky, you cried yourself into a bloody nose. _"C'mon," he said, scooping him up. "Let's get you cleaned up, huh?" Pushing into the kitchen, he set him on the counter and began to wet a dishcloth. "Pinch your nose like I showed you," he ordered gently.

He stuck his tongue out experimentally on his upper lip and tasted copper. _Oh. Bloody nose. Oops._ "Sorry," he grimaced.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, chum," Bruce told him, swiping at his face until he was clean. A few tears still raced to his chin, but they'd slowed drastically. "…Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"You set four places."

"Yeah. For…for both our parents." He shrugged and looked away. "I didn't think you'd mind."

"I don't mind," he assured him quickly. "I appreciate that you thought of them. I appreciate it very, very much. But…why did you use different utensils?"

"Your parents were used to really nice things, Bruce," he explained slowly. "I thought they'd like to see some of their antiques, the heirloom stuff. But my parents…I think they'd be afraid to eat with all that stuff. It's too nice. Even our normal stuff is way nicer than anything they ever had. I only just got used to how all of the dinnerware _matches_, and I've been here eight and a half months. If…if they came, I was afraid they'd see all that nice stuff and think it was for somebody else. Then they'd go away, and I wouldn't get to see them, and they might think I didn't _want_ to see them, and-" his words picked up speed until Bruce stopped him.

"Okay," he interjected. "I understand now." _I thought it might have been something like that. Jesus. _"Listen…you know they're never really gone, right?" He knew he was repeating something Alfred had told him on this night twenty years before, but it had worked, and as such he had no qualms about applying it now. "They'll always be with you, so long as you remember them. The way you did tonight," he added.

"…I know. But I still wish I could see them."

"…Yeah…" he commiserated.

"They're not gone…but they're _gone_."

He nodded. _It's not enough to feel them still in your head and your heart,_ he sighed internally. _Your senses cry out for them. The familiar touch when you're sick; the whispered good night when they think you're asleep; the sight of them spinning together in the empty ballroom, even though there's no music playing…_ He gulped audibly and closed his eyes. When he reopened them, Dick was watching him.

"I didn't mean to make you upset," he apologized.

"You didn't. It was okay. Something I hadn't thought about in a long time." _Something I'd missed remembering. _"Thank you," he added heavily.

"For what?"

"…Alfred's always tried to make this night less painful for me. He does a good job. But there's no way for him to really _understand_." He met his son's gaze. "You do, though. And I hate that, Dick, I want you to know how _passionately_ I hate that you have to live with this, because I know how it feels and I would never wish it on anyone, least of all you." He reached up and stroked a piece of the child's hair back behind his ear. "But having someone else here who understands is also the best Christmas present I've ever received. I want you to know that, too."

"…Bruce?"

"Yeah, chum?"

"…Can I please have another hug?"

He didn't answer; he just swept him up off the counter and squeezed him as if he would never let go. "Now," he said when they finally broke apart. "You shared a Grayson Christmas Eve tradition with me. So it's my turn to share a Wayne tradition with you."

"What is it?" he inquired.

"Every year, we would get in the car and turn on Christmas music. One of the classical stations always plays _The Nutcracker Suite_ tonight, and other holiday songs, too. And then we'd drive around and look at all the different Christmas lights people put up, for hours sometimes. All over the city, drinking hot chocolate as we went. And then, when we got home, we'd each open one present. Just one, in front of the fire, before we went to bed." He paused, reading the boy's face. "…Would you like to do that this year?"

"…Yeah. I would. That sounds really nice, Bruce." For the first time all day, he actually looked excited about something, and the billionaire felt the aching hole in his gut start to close.

"Well then, let's go get started." To his surprise, he found himself growing eager, too. "We'll get some fast food and eat in the car, that way we don't have to stop when we're hungry. Just don't tell Alfred."

"I won't," he promised, leading the way towards the front of the house. As they walked through the dining room, though, he came to a stop.

"…Dick?"

"…I guess I should put those away," he said softly, moving to clear the place settings off of the table.

"No," Bruce stopped him. "Leave them." When he received a quizzical look, he explained. "It's a beautiful tradition, Dick. We should keep it up."

"…Really? You…you like it?"

"I do. Plus…" he trailed off, unable to believe that he was thinking what he was.

"…Plus what?"

"_My_ mother always said Christmas is a magical time," he shrugged finally. "So…you never know. We might as well be prepared, just in case, though, right?"

"Definitely," the boy smiled. "Merry Christmas, Bruce."

"Merry Christmas, kiddo," he smiled back. "Now, let's go see some displays and eat some junk food. Get your coat and boots on."

"Okay!" He bounced into the hall, the characteristic spring coming back into his step as the prospect of lights pushed back the darkness. Bruce followed him at a slower pace, smile still playing around his lips. As he reached the doorway, he paused just long enough to look back at the table. _I haven't felt this good on this day for twenty years,_ he thought, staring at the two places set as if for royalty. _And I have your son to thank for it,_ he went on, his gaze shifting to the other seats. _I hope that helps you rest a little easier._ _I know it helps me._

"Bruce! C'mon! It's already dark out!"

"…I'm coming, chum," he called back. _Thank you,_ he thought finally. _All four of you._ With that, he turned out the lights. For several minutes two relatively happy voices could be heard coming from the foyer as winter clothes were pulled on and plans for the evening detailed; then, suddenly, silence. On the table, the gold edging on four plates picked up the faintest beams from the hallway and gleamed, almost glowing in the dusk.

It was Christmas Eve, and for the first time in twenty years the atmosphere in the manor was content.


End file.
